Philip Montgomery Roberts was a failure. He would never admit it to anyone else, of course. His reputation as a shrewd salesman, even if it were only in his own mind, simply wouldn't allow it. But on nights like this, watching the flames in the fireplace lick the air while his wife read some sort of magazine, it didn't take a great deal of soul-searching or introspection to plot out the moments in his life where he took the wrong road. He was nothing if not honest with himself.

He realized, decades ago, that it all came down to self-discipline, or more accurately, his utter lack of it. Any time his school teachers or his first employers said that tasks could be done properly or they could be done quickly, he had always been the first to finish. It was a rare moment indeed that saw the man go the extra mile for anything. He had made it this far in life not by hard work and dedication but by taking the path of least resistance.

It was a character flaw that troubled him deeply, but doing something about it when he was young and energetic had been a failure, primarily because he hadn't put in anywhere near the effort needed to succeed. Now that he was older, the whole enterprise just seemed too much like hard work.

None of this was to say he hadn't done pretty well for himself. He always wanted to be a fighter pilot; he could never explain why, but soaring through the sky just felt like the absolute definition of freedom. When he found out how much education was required before you could even begin training, plus the peak physical condition pilots were expected to maintain, he gave up on the idea before he even started. Instead, he found himself in the illustrious field of used car sales. His opposition to gyms, healthy eating, and educational institutions aside, he found that he actually had a natural way with people. He could spot potential serious customers a mile away, easily able to distinguish the window shoppers from the ones he could convince to buy. No matter what kind of shopper they were, Phil knew how to take them for everything they were worth.

His monthly salary was respectable enough. It would never raise eyebrows, but it was enough to get by. His commission payments, on the other hand, were enormous. He was consistently ranked as the top salesman in whichever dealership he worked at. His employers overlooked his abrasive personality, general disinterest in paperwork, and fleeting relationship with personal hygiene for one simple fact...he made them money. The last dealer he worked for fired him for an infraction of some company policy or another. He had shrugged, walked down the road to his largest competitor, and had a new job by that afternoon. His old boss watched his sales numbers drop by more than twenty percent, while his new boss sat back and watched his sales numbers soar. His pay packet swelled, but Phil just couldn't muster up the effort required to care.

Work was a means to an end. Some people enjoy working, not for the money, but because they like what they do, they find it rewarding, or simply because they enjoy the challenge. Phil worked because he had to. That was it. If he could find a way to live as well as he did without getting off his ass again for the rest of his life, he would jump at the chance.

Well, maybe not jump, but he would walk with a slightly more brisk pace than normal to get it.

He cast a look at his wife. Her nose was buried in a magazine about the latest Paris fashions they both knew he wasn't going to buy for her. Where he didn't really give much of a shit how he looked when not at work, she was still wearing a face full of make-up, even at this late hour. Her hair was still immaculately pinned in place, and her long, manicured fingers scraped along the pages as she turned them.

Thirty-one years. That's how long he had been married to Debbie. She had been gorgeous when they met. Introduced at a bar one night, he assumed that she wouldn't be interested in him, so like everything else in his life, he hadn't bothered paying much attention to her, much less pursue her. As a woman used to being fawned over by every heterosexual male in the room, his lack of interest in her had been intriguing. Phil unwittingly became the first conversation she had been in for years that didn't involve flirting. The intrigue turned to attraction; attraction turned to obsession, until one day, she had dropped to her knees in the alleyway behind their local bar, right behind the trash cans, and milked his balls into her mouth for no other reason than to let him know she was interested.

Daddy issues and a constant yearning for the approval of aloof men had their uses.

He didn't know if he had given her a happy life, and he wasn't even sure if he cared. She had never had to work a day in her life; that seemed to be enough for her to stick around. Over the years, they fell into that stagnant pattern. He worked to make the money that allowed her to have all the pretty clothes she wanted - if they were reasonably priced - and all the make-up she needed to hold onto her fading youthful looks. In return, she fucked him. It was hardly the thing that romance novels were made of, but it was easy.

There had only been that one hiccup, the one event that almost broke him. It was, to him, the perfect demonstration of how effort was wasted on something as unpredictable as life. He had allowed himself to get caught up in the moment; he had felt the elation of success; real, meaningful success. For the briefest of moments, he had been part of something bigger than himself.

He'd known genuine happiness for the first time in his life.

And then, it collapsed around him in ruins.

There was nothing in the world that could wipe away the pain. There were still those occasional moments when simply looking at her brought it all back. He shook his head clear and clamped down hard on that feeling. He didn't allow himself to think of it anymore and, instead, went back to frowning at the fireplace.

As bad as things were at that point in his life, he made them worse by knocking Debbie up before they had recovered from... it. It wasn't planned; it certainly wasn't wanted. He was too lazy to buy condoms, so pumped her womb full instead. That choice left him encumbered with a son he didn't want in a society that expected every parent to be a doting model of affection. For the most part, he never told people he had a kid. That seemed to be the easiest way to avoid talking about him. For people closer to the 'family' - a word that made his eyes roll almost hard enough to hear them - it was unavoidable that they would be introduced to Pete, so Pete was expected to play along.

Except Pete never played along. It wasn't enough to have a roof over his head, clothes on his back, and money spent on those stupid fucking video games. Not to mention wasting time forcing Phil to pretend to be interested in parent-teacher conferences. No, it had been one embarrassing disappointment after another. Debbie, being the social butterfly she was - or at least the one she wanted to be - insisted they have a social life. Phil didn't care, so let her carry on. That led to them joining the rotary club to look more respectable. Phil didn't care about that either, but sure, anything for a quiet life. That led them to attend god knows how many teeth-grinding social events, galas, dinners, and whatever else those fucking clowns insisted on doing. Phil hated every moment of it, but he did it because Debbie would complain if he didn't. That, and she usually rewarded him with a blowjob afterward. Pete, on the other hand, seemed to treat every one of those as an opportunity to act up. He would embarrass Debbie, Debbie would yell at Phil, Phil would be forced to discipline Pete, and Phil wouldn't get his dick sucked.

In every fight Phil was forced to endure with his incandescent wife, she brought up what he lost over and over again, and Pete was the cause of most of them.

Phil had only ever been able to see Pete as a walking, talking reminder of pain.

It was hardly what a father was supposed to think about his son, but like he always said; he was nothing if not honest with himself.

Besides, it was all in the past, and doing anything about it, even if Phil wanted to, required energy that he just couldn't be bothered to expend. It was easier to think of something else.

A doctor once told him that he could be suffering from some form of undiagnosed long-term depression. Phil had rejected the idea out of hand. He wasn't unhappy; he just didn't care. The doctor said something about that not being how depression worked, that it came in many forms, with one being an inability to feel enthusiasm for anything and nothing ever feeling important. That sounded more accurate, but Phil didn't bother going to the follow-up appointments that were made.

Every now and again, he would have moments like these. Moments of profound reflection, when that overwhelming indifference parted for just long enough to let him see how much of an utter disaster his life had been. In every way a man could be measured, he had failed. Those moments were filled with memories of the things he had done, the apathy shown towards a beautiful woman who loved him, and the overzealous, bordering on cruel severity of the discipline he had doled out to his son. And, of course, there was Sean... the hiccup... He had failed all of them.

He had robbed his wife of her youthful spirit, sapped her of her optimism, and taken advantage of her insecurities to get what he wanted. He knew how much she cared about him, but he had never been able to bring himself to say the three words he knew she wanted to hear. He didn't want to make her happy because he wanted her to be happy. He did it for an easy life. In these moments of clarity, he understood that this was not how it was meant to be, but he also knew that in a little while, the clouds would roll in again, and he wouldn't care.

He knew, deep down, that there was something very wrong with him.

And then there was Pete. Phil could not for the life of him understand how he was still a free man. Some of the things he had done to that boy were not only morally reprehensible, they were downright criminal. All Pete ever had to do was tell a teacher, or a parent of a friend, or someone, and that would have been it. Police and social services would have knocked down his door and justifiably dragged him off to face punishment, but the boy never said anything; he had kept his father's secret. Then he had broken the Roberts family tradition by heading out into the world and actually trying to make something of himself. It was more than Phil had ever done, which was more than his father had ever done. Phil knew he should be proud, but he had never been able to develop that feeling. There was only the shame at what he had done, then the clouds would descend, and there would be... nothing.

Of course, there was the reason that he allowed his blind hatred of Pete to blaze to the surface every time he lost his temper. The one image that rippled over his retina every time he looked at Pete

Sean.

I'm Sorry, Mister Roberts. There was nothing we could do. He's gone.

Phil felt that knot of pain clutch at his chest again; that lump in his throat throbbed around his attempts to swallow it, and his vision misted behind the tears. Everything had been so perfect.

He was jerked from his memories by a sudden, deafening crash as the front door was kicked in. The frame splintered, the frosted glass in the ornate wooden frame shattered, and his wife screamed as three men burst into the room wielding terrifying-looking weapons. Two more men quickly followed them and made straight for the stairs. Phil was on his feet in a heartbeat. He had probably not moved that fast since he was in high school, but the sudden spike in adrenaline allowed him to ignore the protests of his muscles. Debbie jumped up as well, but Phil grabbed her wrist and tugged her behind him, putting himself between her and the gunmen.

"Search the house!" The first man barked as he leveled his rifle at Phil. One of the men next to him peeled off and headed for the kitchen.

Phil could only listen in stunned silence to the clambering sounds of men stomping around on the floor above them, kicking in the doors of one bedroom after another, and the crashes as they turned over furniture in their search for....whatever they were looking for.

"What do you want?" He managed to mumble, his eyes unable to move away from the business end of the rifle aimed at him.

The masked man stepped forward, putting his face only a few inches from Phil's. He could smell the cigarettes on his breath. "Your son," the man growled.

"I... I don't know. We haven't spoken in years!" He stammered.

"I know you visited him in the hospital a few months ago!"

"Then you would know we were kicked out because he didn't want to see us." He retorted. Debbie was pressed into the back of him; he could feel her shoulders shaking with the fearful sobs she was breathing into the back of his neck.

The man straightened himself up and glanced over his shoulder at the second man standing next to him. The other three intruders were starting to filter back into the living room now and had taken up places looking out the windows.

The second man took a breath and stepped forward. Phil's eyes moved from the first man to the approaching second. His head swam as he looked into those piercing eyes. Whereas the four other men of the group had their weapons up and at the ready, this man had his lazily pointing at the floor as if he was carrying it for show more than anything else. He stared at Phil for a few seconds; that feeling of his eyes swimming grew with every passing one until he turned and looked at the first man. "He's human; he's telling the truth," He said softly. "The nurse doubted they would know."

"Fuck!" The first man spat. "We know he left the apartment above the pub."

"The friend?" The second man suggested.

"Gone. Left for the holidays. The nurse doesn't know where and it could be weeks before he is back."

The second man thought for a moment. "Then we'll have to try the friend's girlfriend. Maybe he can be convinced to come back. I can't think of any other people who would know where he's gone."

"He's hiding," The first man snorted. "He knows we are coming for him."

"If you think he is hiding, you are more of a fool than I thought. He is hunting!"

The first man paused. "We need to wrap this up quickly. The boss is planning something big, and this target is the only loose end that can fuck things up."

"I strongly advise caution. I have seen him in action. If you challenge him head-on, you won't survive. Getting him to give himself up willingly is the only way to do this safely, let alone quietly. The attack on the party was an unmitigated disaster. We can't afford another repeat of that."

"I know!" the first man hissed. "It would be wise for you to remember who you are talking to."

The second man's eyes creased with a smile that was hidden by the rest of his mask. "Oh, I know who I am talking to, Jean-Pierre. Failure at this point would be extremely hazardous to your health! Take the girlfriend, take the friend's girlfriend, and find him!"

"Please," Debbie sobbed, cowering behind Phil's shoulder. "We don't know anything; let us go."

Both men turned to look at them as if they had forgotten that the couple was still there. "What are your orders for these two?" The first man - Jean-Pierre - said, slumping his shoulders in acknowledgment of the second man's superiority.

The second man looked over them thoughtfully. "I want you to call your son," he said firmly.

Phil swallowed hard. "No."

The man's eyes creased in a smile again as Debbie gasped in surprise behind him. "I think it's a little late for you to start playing the part of the protective father now, Mr. Roberts."

Phil steeled himself, hardening his eyes. "I already lost one son. I am not giving you the other."

"Can you make him?" Jean-Pierre asked quietly.

The second man shook his head softly. "You have no idea how our powers work, do you?" He whispered back. "There is nothing more I can do. They are loose ends. Tie them up." He turned and headed out of the room.

Jean-Pierre nodded, reaching into his holster and pulling out the silenced handgun.

Phil understood in an instant what was about to happen. His life had been a failure. There had been so many mistakes, but there was one he could rectify before the end. "I love you, Debbie," he said softly as he watched Jean-Pierre flick the safety of his weapon.

Debbie gasped, crying harder into his back. She knew what was coming as well. "I love y..."

The weapon whispered its shots. There was no pain, at least not immediately. Just the thumps as two bullets thudded into his chest. The world spun around him as he felt himself falling onto his back. The only thing he was able to focus on was the sound of his wife screaming. For some reason, she was still clutching that magazine in her hand.

Jean-Pierre stepped closer to her and pressed the barrel of his weapon to Debbie's forehead. "Call your son, and you live," he offered.

"Fuck you!" she sobbed.

Phil looked up at her. Even with her face twisted in terror and shock, she was still remarkably beautiful. Her perfect make-up made her look a decade younger than she was, even if her waterproof mascara wasn't holding up its end of the bargain.

Jean-Pierre squeezed the trigger again, and her perfectly and artfully tended locks exploded outwards from the back of her head. Her screams stopped in an instant, her head whipped backward, and the fireplace behind them sizzled under the spray of blood.

"Move out," Jean-Pierre barked to the other three men in the room before he took a step closer to Phil. Phil coughed, his lungs quickly filling with blood. It was getting harder to breathe, and he could feel the oblivion of unconsciousness creeping up on him. His eyes started to roll.

Jean-Pierre aimed his weapon at Phil's face.

Phil closed his eyes and welcomed that oblivion gladly. His life had been a failure, but he could die having achieved something worthwhile. His son had a chance, and his wife knew how he really felt about her. It wasn't much, but it was something.

The weapon whispered again, and oblivion consumed him.

********

The inky pawl of darkness swallowed the memory, and stillness returned to the mindscape of Jean-Pierre Toussant's shattered mind. I took a deep breath. Years of torture and abuse at their hands made me think that watching the deaths of my parents would be something to be glad about, but that anger inside me just wouldn't allow it. It only grew.

Phil, my father, could easily have called me. I knew it was impossible to trace my phone; the computer had seen to that. But he could have played along to save himself. The same could be said for my mother. It certainly would have followed the pattern of the rest of their parenting lives. But they had refused.

That surprised me.

And then there was that remark about already losing one son.

What the fuck did that mean?

I took a deep breath and turned back toward my captive. Now was not the time for those questions. Toussant's eyes were wide and frantic; he was expecting some form of pain in retribution. He knew it was coming, and he was right. Just not yet. "You see, I ask a question; your mind answers it whether you want it to or not," I said calmly. "So, let's start with the obvious one. The other man in your team, he was an Evo, right?"

Toussant nodded. "Yes."

"What is his name?"

"I... I don't know. We were never supposed to know each other's names. I don't even know the names of the other inquisitors who were on my team."

"Then show me his face."

"I never saw it." A series of memories flashed around us, each one showing the man in some form of mask or another, but always with those same piercing brown eyes.

"Dammit."

I took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's talk about this 'Royal Inquisition,' shall we?"

********

I had never smoked. I never saw the point. Cigarettes were expensive, they smelled disgusting, and how anyone could ignore the overwhelming negative health effects was beyond me. Standing in the garden four hours later, however, I understood the appeal of something that could settle your nerves and calm you down. Even if it could give you cancer.

At that moment, I just needed air.

I leaned against the block stone wall and looked up into the crisp winter night. It was now the early hours of the morning, although I had no idea what time exactly. Given the relentless rain that had battered this part of the country for almost a week, the clouds had finally wandered off to water somewhere else, leaving the vast expanse of stars behind them. Each one twinkled against the blackness of space as their light was distorted by the earth's atmosphere. Under any other circumstance, it would have been a beautiful night. Freezing fucking cold, but beautiful. The ground around me was frosted in white as the dew froze; everything was muted, and not even the wind disturbed the quiet of the hour.

I had spent the last four hours in Toussant's head, the equivalent of a week to him, and I was exhausted. Answers had been slow, but I was starting to get an idea of the forces being massed against me.

The door opened, the light from the inside of the cottage spreading out onto the garden as Charlotte and Fiona stepped out. Jerry was taking his turn with our prisoner.

"I'm... I'm sorry about your parents," Fiona offered in a voice filled with genuine sympathy.

I just nodded. My anger at the whole situation just wouldn't let my emotions even acknowledge their deaths. "There is definitely an Evo working with them," I said without meeting their eyes. "That is how they found them. And he isn't some faceless lackey in the Conclave; he was there when they killed them. It was his idea to go after Becky."

"Who is he?" Charlotte asked after letting this information sink in.

"Toussant didn't know."

"See, that's the part I don't understand," Fiona frowned. "Why the secrecy? Until a few hours ago, nobody thought it was possible to get into an Inquisitor's head. That guy just went through hell before he told you anything; I certainly couldn't have broken him. So why would he not know?"

"Because they aren't only keeping secrets from us. In fact, I don't think we even factor into how they operate," I answered. "They are working like terrorist cells. They only have enough information to complete their mission."

"And where have we heard THAT before?"

"But why?"

"So the rest of the inquisition doesn't find out. They aren't hiding their actions from us; they are hiding their plans from them. Every member of the Royal Inquisition is a traitor to the rest of their order, but they aren't like the Montreux family who faked their deaths. Almost all the 'soldiers' are still active members of the Inquisition; they are given tasks to prove their allegiance to the King, and once they have proven themselves trustworthy, they are given a mission to carry out. They don't know the identities of the other people they are working with; they don't know where the missions come from or who gives them out. They just get a message in an email account, and off they go. That way, if any of the team members are playing along and are still loyal to the rest of the Inquisition, they can only betray that one mission."

"Shit," Fiona groaned. "Can those emails be traced?"

I shook my head. "They are never sent. They are left in the drafts folder of the account, and I doubt we can track when or where they were logged into, let alone who left the messages."

"So, a dead end, then?" Charlotte huffed, leaning against the wall beside me and taking my hand.

"Not necessarily. The Evo helping them was not at the warehouse. He hadn't seen him since they snatched Evie. I have the system backtracking surveillance from her house to see if we can find him, but it was a week ago. A lot of security systems overwrite their footage after a few days, so I'm not hopeful. All I know is that he didn't have an accent, his eyes were brown, and he was roughly the same height as Toussant, but we can all change those things about ourselves on a whim, so that means nothing." I turned to Fiona. "Would the Conclave know which Evos are in this area?"

"I doubt it," she shook her head. "Jerry and I are here, and they don't know about that. Pete, I've gotta be honest. We may need help here."

"Uri."

She nodded. "I know you don't trust him, but I do. And he knows more about this shit than any of us."

"More than that," Charlotte added. "We are facing an army here, and there are four of us. Three of whom are nowhere near as strong as you, even if we all combined our strengths, and none of us are trained for combat."

"I'm not either," I pointed out.

"But Uri is." Fiona finished for her.

"I've gotta say," I arched an eyebrow at my caramel-haired friend. "You are the last person I expected to want Uri here."

"Adapt or die," she shrugged. "I've never met Uri. I only know what you have told me about him. His rank in the Conclave dictated how I felt about him, and that was based on my upbringing in the Sect. They are hardly as innocent as they have made out. We need all the help we can get. It was Marco I never trusted."

"Marco?" Fiona frowned. "Why didn't you trust him? He has always been great with Jerry and me."

"I don't know, just something about him gives me the creeps."

Fiona nodded thoughtfully. "He's a member of the Black Knights, he's a fighter, and he's high enough ranked to be able to look into things in the Conclave for us. I know Uri is too, but as you said, we need all the help we can get."

Charlotte scrunched up her face but gave a conciliatory nod. "It's your call, Pete."

I took a deep breath and sighed. I had been awake, relying on my power to keep me upright, for almost a week, and after the effort expended trying to break into Toussant's mind, I was starting to feel it. "I will give it some proper thought in the morning. I need to sleep."

"Yes," Charlotte snorted. "You really do. Go on. Jerry will be with Toussant for a few hours; Fiona and I want a look when he is done. So you have plenty of time to sleep." She leaned up and kissed my cheek.

"We'll wake you if we need you," Fiona smiled, pulling herself onto her tip-toes to kiss the other one.

I nodded with a smile and headed back into the house to bed.

*******

The ground was littered with bodies. Charlotte was lying to one side of me, her lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. One entire side of her body, from right below her unmoving breast down to her hip, was just gone. The gaping, bloody maw spilled her entrails onto the water and blood-clogged mud beneath her. Next to her was Fiona, or what was left of her. There was barely enough of her head remaining to identify her. Jerry was on the other side of me. The bottom of his ribcage and the end of his spine hung loosely around the mess where the entire lower part of his body used to be. I recognized Jimmy's shoe, attached to the bottom of a severed leg.

Uri screamed something at me, pulling my attention to him. His face was a mask of panicked determination as he pointed mutely ahead of us. I didn't get a chance to work out what he was saying before a colossal explosion blew him to pieces. There was nothing left when the dust settled. I turned to look in the direction he had pointed.

The beast that had stalked those tunnels in my dreams had friends. It had a lot of friends. A whole horde of them surged over the blackened, pockmarked landscape, hurling themselves in violent fury toward me. These were not stalking. They were bounding toward me in a full-scale charge, each of them intent on destroying me and anyone associated with me. Behind them was an army of normal humanoid-looking people, although I knew from their glows that there was nothing human about them. Bullets sailed through the air around me, artillery shells gouged massive craters out of the ground, and the earth shook under the relentless forces of battle.

I could feel the power building inside me, more and more of it. This was not confined to my palms as it had always been, though. This power filled me. Burning away the fear, burning away the mercy and compassion, leaving only the anger.

The first beast reached me, launching into the air and throwing itself at me. His five-inch long fangs dripped with the blood of my friends, and his burning eyes set with grim intent. It was here to end me. The only thing in the battle frenzy of its mind was the need to destroy me.

My hand shot up, and the beast froze in the air. The fury in its eyes was replaced by momentary confusion and then total terror. With a flick of my wrist, he erupted into flame, the burning heat of my rage pouring into him and immolating him in moments, the incinerated remains scattered to the winds.

More of his friends were closing, but they had seen what had happened. They were slowing.

But it was too late for them.

My anger exploded out of me. Every shred of rage and fury was vented out of me in a sheet of white-hot and wholly unnatural flame that washed over the battlefield. Beasts, as terrifying as I had once found them, turned and fled, trying in vain to escape the wall of fire that washed toward them.

Dozens were reduced to ash in only a few seconds. The rest of them fled back to the safety of their armies.

"Running won't save you, now," I heard myself growl over the roar of fiery death.

Gathering more of my power into the palms of my hand. I charged after them.

I woke with a start, blinking against the blackness of the night. Charlotte was curled into the side of me, her head resting on my chest as she slept. I took a deep breath and relaxed, leaning my head back into the pillow.

An evil smile curled my lips, and I whispered into the darkness.

"This time, I am coming for you."